


Distraction Tactic

by ZeNSin



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Child Abuse, Gaster's not a good person, M/M, Or a good dad, Parent/Child Incest, Tentacles, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeNSin/pseuds/ZeNSin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papyrus finds a bunch of magazines at the Dump, and gets an Idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction Tactic

**Author's Note:**

> Features tentadick and [tentavag](zensinning.tumblr.com/post/146889514488/so-i-got-thinking-about-tentadick-which-obviously).
> 
> Also, huuuge thanks to [Crawly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crawlycrawlers/pseuds/crawlycrawlers/works) for looking this piece of shit over!! Thank you dear! ;A; ♥
> 
> If there's anything you want me to tag, please tell me, and I'll do so!

Waterfall is so very peaceful.

Papyrus pushes aside seaweed and grass, stumbling over his own two feet— his jaw aches, and he can still feel Dad's fingers digging into the joints, still taste steel in his mouth, and there's fine, thin, lines along the inside of his mouth.

There's a whisper-echo of voices ahead, and Papyrus ducks around a corner— picks up the pace, feet padding across the ground.

Dad doesn't know he's out here, which means he has to hurry— yet he couldn't stay inside, couldn't stand to just do _nothing_.

After weeks of bed rest, Sans is finally feeling better; which means today is Sans' turn, and Papyrus _hates_ it. He hates the way Sans is so broken afterwards, so damaged— it takes Sans weeks to heal properly, days of just laying in bed, sleeping and doing nothing.

Papyrus _hates it_.

Hates the fact that he can't do anything.

So, he has to do something; even if it's only going to the dump, and finding something to make Sans smile, to make him _laugh_.

Shaking the thoughts away, Papyrus focuses back on the now— the smell of the Garbage Dump is getting stronger; rot and decay and old, musty things. He ignores the aches in his bones— the cracks and fractures in his femurs— and switches into a full on sprint.

Papyrus splashes into the water, and today he doesn't bother with his magic— he just runs through, getting his shorts wet, and soaking most of the bandages wrapped around his bones.

He goes straight towards the biggest of the piles; a huge mountain of trash piled up toward the cave ceiling.

Papyrus can just barely see the top, towering far above.

He slows down the pace, settling into a soft pad through the water-  irritably looks down at his right hand and frowns.

It's wrapped tightly in a cast, and Papyrus can barely move his fingers; Dad had fractured it something bad, and after he'd harshly applied a splint, told Papyrus to under _no circumstances_ take it off.

Papyrus _could_ just take it off— it'd make climbing go quicker, which would give him more time, but... Dad gets so _angry_ when he disobeys an order, _and_ he's already gotten the other bandages soaking wet...

With a sigh, Papyrus decides to just leave it be— he's done this one-handed numerous times anyway, so it's not like it's going to be a _problem_.

He finds a hand-hold easily enough; a kind of metallic object which doesn't budge under his weight and with practised ease hefts himself up, digging his feet into the trash.

Despite the numerous cracks and fractures in almost all of his bones it doesn't take long for him to scramble his way up the pile.

He finds an outcropping, drags himself up on it— a table of some kind, made out of sturdy wood and heaped with ton of trash. It doesn't even creak under his weight, which, really— not a surprise.

He barely weights a thing.

He huffs out a breath of air, lets himself drop down to sit cross-legged on the table; his right hand is stinging, like nails hammering into bone. His jaw aches.

He's already tired. And now his head is aching too— threads of pain across the front of his skull, stabbing into his left socket.

Dad cracked it two days ago.

He'd gotten angry because as usual, Papyrus was being stupid. So Dad had slammed his face into the steel table.

It had only hurt for a brief minute or two, and then it had dulled to a persistent throbbing.

With a sigh, Papyrus forces himself back to his feet— he wavers almost immediately, and he only just manages to stop himself from falling off the edge.

Deciding against risking his neck by climbing higher, Papyrus starts going over the items on this level— a cracked CD case, a box of piano keys, a bunch of ruined books.

And— something else.

Papyrus blinks curiously, stops in his search.

It's a pile of glossy papers, held together by a rubber band.

Papyrus tugs it out from the trash, works his thumb under the rubber, and snaps it against the smooth cover.

A person of some kind is posing on the front, wearing nothing but a pair of _very_ short shorts. Papyrus tilts his head, stares blankly down at it.

Curiosity piqued, Papyrus drags the first one out from under the rubber band, flipping it open.

There's lots of pictures, people posing and wearing very little; there's some text on the second page, but beside a few words, none of it is legible.

He flips through the first few pages, but quickly gets bored— it's just pictures, so he dumps it on the table, and pulls out the next one.

It's missing the cover, and he can't read the text _at all_ — it's in some kind of different language, and Papyrus doesn't even bother trying. Just dumps it beside him.

The next one is a bit more promising— there's bright, bubbly text on the cover, happily declaring all sorts of things:

**How To Keep Your Man Distracted In Five Easy Steps!**

**The Secret To Having Good Sex!**

**25 Positions He'll Never Tire Of!**

The first few pages are filled with text; Papyrus skims over them, absently wondering why sex, of all things, could possible be _distracting_.

He remembers some of the moldsmals Dad had used for tests, and how he'd write down the differences in their physical form, their magic— all kind of things. He'd mutter under his breath, words like chromosomes, genes, sexual dimorphism...

Whatever sex these people are talking about, it's definitely not the one Papyrus knows.

Sighing, Papyrus flips further— there's text lamenting about how their man isn't paying attention to them, which makes Papyrus squint in confusion.

He can't imagine why they would want their man to pay attention to them; Papyrus best days are the one where Dad is too busy to pay attention to neither him, nor Sans.

—Sans.

Papyrus frowns. Raises his head, and looks blankly over at the trash-pile.

Sans.

He was— he was supposed to look for something for _Sans_. Not waste time on _this_ , whatever it is.

Papyrus scrambles up to his feet— his right leg nearly gives out under him, and he yelps; his soul is beating frantically.

He wasn't supposed to waste _time_ — he'd find something super quick, get back in time to see Sans before Dad took him, and—

With a strangled sound, Papyrus dips back down; picks up the pile of papers, because it's the only thing he has, and spins on his heel, runs to the edge.

He's still tired, and his magic reserves aren't as high as he would prefer, but he doesn't have _time_ — he promised Sans he'd always, _always_ , be there.

That he'd always be there when Dad took him away.

And now, he's going to end up breaking that promise.

 

**~♥~**

 

Papyrus' footsteps echoes in the long, metal hallway.

He runs down it, panting for air, vision a tiny bit blurry— pain is pulsing along every bone, and he can barely think. His mind feels fuzzy and distant, and he almost trips over his feet.

He has to hurry.

He slips around a corner, nearly scrambles along the floor, and sprints forward— their room is just ahead, door closed as usual, and _please, please_ —

He slams into the door; springs it open and catches himself on the frame, gasping in air and frantically looking around their small, bare room.

Sans isn't there.

Papyrus bites down a wail, stumbling into the room, just to be sure— but there's no Sans behind the door, or under the bed, or hidden in a corner.

He presses a palm to his socket, shakes in air. The bundle of paper feels heavy against his ribs, and a part of him almost considers ripping it to bits; it's because of it that he's missed this, that he's broken this promise, and _god_ , he's never going to forgive himself.

Sniffling hard, Papyrus wipes at his face.

Ripping the papers wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't make anything better.

He turns in a lazy circle, breathing in shakily.

There has to be _something_ he can do— some way to help Sans.

... Oh.

Papyrus blinks, stops— stares down the hallway, and maybe this is a stupid, suicidal idea, but—

_But_.

It would help Sans.

He doesn't let himself think further— sprints down the hallway, feet slapping against metal, and he almost trips immediately; the cracks in his femur, tibia and fibula scream and grind together, but he bites the pain down.

Sans needs him.

Dad usually uses the lab closest to their room; something about it being easier, and Papyrus can't help but be thankful— it makes it easier to grind his teeth together, to ignore the pain and just _run_.

He makes it there as quickly as possible— his soul is burning, fluttering weakly, and he can't seem to breathe at all.

He stops, just for a second— calms his breathing, and when he's sure he's not outright panting, he starts forward again.

Sneaks up to the door, and peaks inside.

Sans is tied to the table, legs and arms spread out— his face is set in terror, sockets wide and eyelights darting, chest heaving and falling with panting breaths.

There's still scruffs of damage across his bones— tiny cracks in his face, along his ulna and radius.

Papyrus' soul jerks with pain, anguish.

He has to _help_ —

Dad is going over rows of beaker and tools, and there's one beaker that stands out from the others— it's filled with glowing, bright liquid, and Papyrus recognizes it.

Determination.

_Oh god_ —

Papyrus hunches down, forces his breath still. He feels like crying. Dad's going to do the Determination test. On _Sans_.

Papyrus can barely remember his own turn with the Determination— he can just remember the pain, engulfing everything.

He shudders.

No— he has to stop this. Sans—

Sans wouldn't survive this.

Who _cares_ what'll happen to Papyrus if he does this; it's not important— he can survive.

Papyrus slinks lower, carefully pushes the door open— it makes no sound, and he crawls into the room slowly, tentatively.

Dad doesn't notice.

Sans, however, spots him— his eyes goes even wider, somehow, and he frantically shakes his head.

_Don't_ , his eyes say.

Papyrus smiles at him; tries to make it as reassuring as possible.

_It'll be fine_ , he wants to say. _Everything will be fine_.

He's not sure if he's lying— he hopes he isn't, if only for Sans.

Papyrus works his way around the table carefully, keeps an eye on Dad the whole time. He's muttering under his breath, checking over vials and beakers, and pacing back and forth.

Moving towards the end of the work-table, as far away from the Determination sample as possible, and this is Papyrus' only chance.

He doesn't hesitate.

He snaps into a run, throws himself forward and his hand catches the sample— knocks it over, and it shatters on the floor with a loud, cracking noise.

Dad whirls around. Papyrus catches himself on the table.

He turns to look at Dad, chest rising and falling quickly, and somehow, he's not even afraid.

Dad's face is frozen— caught in the moment of realisation, and slowly, it grows furious.

"Papyrus."

His voice is completely flat.

He steps forward— slow and calculated, and Papyrus' breath hitches, and _there's_ the fear.

Papyrus forces himself to stay put. To not move.

"Why. Did you do _that_?"

Dad's voice comes out slow, pointed. It makes Papyrus shiver, and he can feel fingers digging into his jaw joints, forcing his mouth open and—

He breathes air in through his teeth, and exhales it slowly.

Doesn't answer; just looks at Dad.

Anger twitches on Dad's face— tight and furious, and Papyrus resists the urge to hunch in on himself.

"Are you _aware_ —" Dad steps closer, closer. "—how _little_ material I have left? How _precious_ Determination is?"

He hisses the last point, and Papyrus _does_ flinch then. But, still, he says nothing.

"Not going to answer? Well," Dad's towering over Papyrus, now, huge and terrifying. "We'll just have to have a little _lesson_ on manners then."

Magic clamps down around his soul, quickly and ruthlessly, and Papyrus bites down the gasp of pain— tries to focus on something else, like the knowledge that he _helped_ , that he did _something_.

He's jerked off the ground, hovering at eyelevel with Dad, and he can't look him in the eye— it makes his soul hurt.

"I think you need a time out," Dad says. The anger in his voice is gone, but that means nothing. "And while I'm getting another sample ready, you can _think_ about what you've done."

Papyrus stops.

He— he hadn't even _thought_. He had... just assumed Dad would stop for today. Had just— assumed he had _helped_.

But... it had been _pointless_.

He barely notices being moved forward; barely notices leaving the room with Sans, and being moved through the halls.

It takes not even a minute before he's thrown into a bare, white room with nothing but an examination table.

He collapses in a pile, hardly aware of the sudden new wave of pain— he's not aware of _anything_ , really, except that he _failed_.

"I'll be back," Dad says, voice sharp, and then Papyrus is alone.

It takes a while, before Papyrus can drag himself out of that hole— can force himself back in reality, and when he does, it's with a wet, shaky gasp.

Pain pulses up his leg, slams into the back of his teeth, and he whines.

Presses his tightly-wrapped right wrist to his face, and breathes in shakily.

He lets the pain wash over him, lets it rock him until it slowly calms down— until he can breathe and think, and he lowers his arm.

His right fibula is snapped through, and the cracks in his tibia are long and deep— he hisses when he moves his leg into a better position, shifts it so it lays out in front of him.

With a huff of air, pushes himself backwards; inches back until he's flush against the wall.

He sighs— relaxes, tips his skull back, until it taps against the metal. It's cool against his bones, and he closes his sockets.

He doesn't know what to do.

There has to be _something_ he can do— something, anything, to help Sans.

He groans, angrily scrubs at his face with his left hand. He had been so _stupid_. Thinking it'd be that easy, that he could just—

Frustration burns in his mouth, and Papyrus shuts that thought down— it doesn't _matter_ , it doesn't, because he's stuck here, right now, and he can't do _anything_.

No reason to— to think about how useless and stupid he is.

Papyrus jerks his shirt up, pulls out the bundle of paper; he's surprised Dad didn't notice them but he's not going to complain.

He dumps the pile beside him, picks the top one and opens it.

It's the same one as before, though it's on a page he hasn't read; something about making foreplay interesting, and how to make the sex last longer.

Papyrus resists the urge to sigh; _why_ are these people so insistent on sex being such a big deal?

_Ugh_ — Papyrus droops down a bit, shifting so he's not quite so flush with the wall; his leg protests, but he furiously ignores it.

Starts reading, because what _else_ can he do?

It's— weird.

Talk of 'nibbling' and 'touching', and 'kneeling between his legs', and Papyrus is starting to wonder if _maybe_ they're talking about a completely different thing.

Then they mention thighs and hips, and at last Papyrus _thinks_ he might get what they actually mean.

Not sex, but intercourse— there had been a book about that, in one of the piles Dad had given them, but it had been boring and dry, and neither he nor Sans had thought that intercourse sounded fun.

But...

They keep on mentioning that it'll 'distract him' and that 'he'll lose track of time!' and—

Papyrus shifts, clicks his teeth in thought.

Determination is unstable stuff, Papyrus knows that much. He knows that after making it, it needs some time to get ready— and then, after it's ready, it'll only be usable for a while.

Maybe...

He puts the papers aside, shifts; pushes his shorts down.

His pelvis doesn't do anything.

... So...

Furrowing his face, Papyrus decisively lifts his left hand; positions it.

He— he just have to like...

Bracing himself for— something, he shoves his hand downwards, right through his pelvis.

...Nothing happens.

Papyrus pouts— tries wriggling his fingers around, but nope, nothing. He's doing _something_ wrong, but...what?

He tries moving his hand around some, brushing the edges of his wrist against his inlet. It feels kind of weird, but... that's all. He _must_ be doing something wrong.

He pulls his hand back out; shifts some more, and pushes himself further down— splays his legs a bit more, and carefully skims his fingers over his ilium.

Well, that doesn't feel _bad_ — Papyrus frowns, repeats the motion. It feels... kinda tickly, maybe? Definitely not something that'd distract Dad though.

He huffs.

Skims his fingers along the pelvic inlet, rubs it over his pubis— his soul skips a beat.

He naps his hand back, stares down at his pelvis— his soul is doing a weird thing, and.

He clicks his teeth.

Carefully reaches back down; this time he doesn't put his hand through his pelvis. Instead he just, skims his fingers over the bone, putting gentle pressure on the surface.

His breath hitches.

He doesn't stop— continues his feather-light touches, and his soul is pulsing oddly, and his breath is— weird.

With a shaky exhale, he pulls his hand back.

Sure, that felt— kind of good, but—

It wasn't _all-consuming_ , like the text said.

He flexes his fingers, inhales, exhales— his soul is still beating oddly, and there's a weird edge to his magic.

He pushes his shorts down a bit more, skims his fingers over the top of his femur.

Lays his hand flat, curls his fingers around the inner-side— rubs them there, just below his subpubic angle, and—

A gentle light pulses, stark blue, and it tints his fingers; his pelvis.

Papyrus' eyes go wide.

Magic hums, shakes a bit in his bones, and there's a strange, warm slickness between his legs.

He swallows. Inches his fingers higher, and warmth washes over them.

His breath is funny, rattling along his vertebrae.

He has no idea what he's doing.

He rests his fingers along his ischium, and there's a— a _fold_ , right there, and it's almost throbbing, pulsing.

He—

His breath shakes.

It has to feel really good, to be able to distract Dad. And... he has to make _sure_.

Papyrus swallows. Nods to himself.

Gently, hesitantly, he pushes his fingers inside, and— _oh_.

It's— it's tight. Warm, too, and it closes around his fingers, and he can _feel_ his fingers, rubbing along it, and—

Papyrus groans, a tiny, little sound.

His eyes flutter close.

Something slick and wet curls around his fingers, dips in between the gaps of his fingers, and tugs at them. His hips twitches, and his fingers are pulled deeper, brushing over small nubs that sends sparks of pleasure rattling inside his head.

He gasps.

A breathy noise, and he jerks his pelvis downwards, and his fingers slip into _something_ and—

"Ahh-"

A small, fluttery sound, and he arches his spine, his back; tilts his head back, and _god_.

He grinds down, and his fingers presses, meets something that makes his whole body shudder and his voice lift.

"Ahhh..."

His mind is blank, seeing stars, completely white— he grinds down again, again, each time his fingers slipping against something that makes his soul burn.

Warmth trickles down his spine, out between his ribs, and his fingers are wet, slick.

He moans; his vision tilts, and all he can feel is the _pleasure_ , eating him alive and whole, and he jerks down again and again, quicker and quicker.

His voice shakes out of him, ripped free, and with a final, spastic burst, he _explodes_.

Magic burns at his bones, and a spasm overtakes his body— his eyelights gut out, and his breath leaves him.

He pants.

In, out— his mind is fuzzy, distant, and he blinks his eyes slowly.

That—

He slides his fingers out, looks at them curiously— they're covered in blue, and he sticks his tongue to a spot. Grimaces a bit.

He wipes it away on his shirt.

Papyrus rubs at his face, and his cheeks are burning— completely flushed with magic, and he huffs.

It... was really good.

Papyrus isn't sure he can explain it— but it felt _good_ , really good, and.

It... could work.

Papyrus pulls his shorts up, wriggles a bit— there's a wet patch on the ground beneath him, and on his shirt, and it makes his clothes sticky.

He's still breathing hard, and he feels— _warm_. Uncomfortable so, and he shifts, tries to find a position that'll somehow be _better_.

Maybe he should just try reading again—

Footsteps.

Papyrus freezes, locks up, and he doesn't know what to _do_ — panic sits in his mouth, and—

The door slides open.

Dad walks in, face serious, but otherwise blank. He's carrying a bundle of cloth, and Papyrus recognizes it as his tool bag.

He swallows.

"Get up on the table," Dad says, and the door closes behind him— locks, and Dad doesn't even look at him. Just walks right past, over to the work-table set in the very corner.

He lays the bundle there, unfolds it.

Papyrus looks down; focuses on the papers beside him, and—

He can do this.

He— he _has to_.

Papyrus gets to his feet slowly, haltingly— his right leg won't move with him; he has to lean most of his weight against the wall and his broken right arm.

It hurts, but he ignores it.

He limps toward Dad.

Fingers sliding over the wall, smooth metal and steel, and he focuses on his breathing.

Focuses on Dad's back, _right there_ , and—

He reaches out.

Clumsily, his hand meets cloth.

Dad freezes.

"Papyrus—" his voice is harsh. "What are you—"

He turns.

Papyrus ignores the words, the voice, and just focused on _doing_ — he slips his right hand in under Dad's lab coat, brushes his fingers against ribs.

Dad's breath stops.

Papyrus raises his left, rests it on Dad's hipbone. Works his fingers in under the shirt, wriggles it down his pants - his hand bumps against the iliac crest, and he strokes his fingers over it. Uses his right to rub over Dad's ribs.

Dad's breath hitches.

"Papyrus—"

Skims his hand down, over the ilium, and along the inlet— massages his fingers over the subpubic angle, and Dad _groans_.

Papyrus pushes his hand back, presses his knuckles to Dad's coccyx, and he doesn't know what he's doing, just that he's _touching_ —

Dad breathes out shakily.

Papyrus swallows; risks a glance up.

Dad's face is flushed, just a bit, and he's staring _right down_ at him.

Their eyes meet.

Suddenly, Papyrus isn't standing anymore; he's grabbed, hefted up, and planted on the cold, steel table.

Dad pushes off his lab coat, kicks off his pants; Papyrus breathes shakily, watching him unclothe with wide sockets.

 His soul is pounding.

And then Dad is right there and Papyrus' shorts are off and dropped away and there's fingers tracing over his inlet, and _oh_.

It feels... different.

Dad hoists himself up to sit the table, and Papyrus is pulled closer— picked up and put down astride Dad's lap, facing him. Papyrus blinks.

He's... never been on Dad's lap before.

He presses his teeth together, looks past Dad; at the faintly-gleaming wall.

A hand clamps down on his wrist, and Dad's voice is weird, rough:

"Touch."

His hand is guided downwards, and Papyrus doesn't hesitate in doing as he's told— he touches his fingers to Dad's coccyx, his sacrum, the arches of his ilium and the curves of his pubis.

Dad's making funny, half-strangled noises, and there's fingers around Papyrus' iliac crest, gently rubbing along the arch, and—

It feels kind of good.

Dad makes a weird, grunting noise, sockets closed, and something slick wraps itself around Papyrus' wrist.

He jerks, looks down— a long, purple tentacle is curled around his wrist, pulsing against his bones.

It's— dad's?

Suddenly, hands are on _him_ — scratching over his ilium, rubbing at his inlet and pubis, and he inhales shakily, shudders.

It's—

Magic warms between his legs, and he _whines_.

He's... really wet.

Dad makes an odd, rumbling sound, and there's breath against his cheek. "Oh, you like that?"

He's moved, lifted upward— fingers rub at the top of his femurs, and he wriggles, just a bit.

He's panting, but so is Dad.

"I never expected _this_ from you," Dad says, right against his cheek, and something flickers against him— against the folds, and he twitches.

"Oh, but how _darling_ you look, right now."

And he's pushed back down— something enters him, slowly, and it's _big_. He clenches around it, and he can feel it inside him, slick and wet, brushing over nubs and—

He moans, arching.

Dad's voice cracks, and his hands close tight around Papyrus' spine. He shudders.

Then, without warning, he thrusts up.

Papyrus' moan breaks into a strangled scream, and the pleasure twists— pain pulses, and he tries to jerk away, to _move_.

Hands clamp down on his iliac crest, keep him down.

Whatever it is fills him, pushing at his walls, and he whines— it's _too much_ , and he pants for air, for respite.

"Oh god," Dad pants. "You're so _tight_."

Something burns inside Papyrus, and it doesn't feel good, it feels _wrong_ , and he cries out; pushes, weakly, at Dad's chest.

"So good," Dad mumbles, and twitches his hips up— Papyrus cries, because it _hurts_ , it _hurts_.

He clenches around it, and Dad moans— thrusts up again, and it's seeking deeper, cutting over nubs and breaking at his walls, and _god_ , it hurts—

He's crying.

He twists his fingers into Dad's ribs, clings. His vision is blurred.

The tip slips up, inside, and it breaks into him— his whole body jerks, and a scream tears at his vertebrae.

Pain. Pleasure.

He claws at bone, arches and twitches helplessly. Liquid drips down from his pelvis, and his soul is beating so loud.

"S-SANS!"

He's sobbing.

"S-SANS, H-H-HELP!"

Dad groans against his cheek.

Another thrusts, and it's like he's breaking open, like he's bleeding magic, and god, _god_ , it hurts, it's so good, it _hurts_ —

His soul jerks against his ribs.

Liquid drips down his spine, and he's falling, crashing, and he can barely feel Dad thrusting inside him, can barely feel anything except shame.

He sobs.

"Ahh," Dad breathes.

"PL-PLEASE," he cries, because it _hurts_ , and he just wants to stop.

"PLEASE, D-DAD-"

Dad groans, and hands grip him by his hips; raise him, and slam him back down, and he screams purely in pain this time.

Something tears inside him, and it _hurts so much_.

"DAD, PLEASE! IT H-HURTS!"

Dad repeats the motion. Again and again, and Papyrus sobs and sobs, clinging to his Dad's chest, tries to follow with each motion.

He's clenching again, and he's panting for breath— he's still crying, can't seem to stop, and his head is fuzzy.

Distant.

"God," Dad breathes. "You're so wet for me, aren't you?"

Papyrus thinks, maybe, he shakes his head. He doesn't know— he doesn't _know_.

It hurts.

It feels good.

He—

With a sudden shudder, Dad twitches his hips up once, twice; his chest clanks against Papyrus' and liquid splashes warmly over his hands.

Papyrus cries.

Dad stills beneath him, and Papyrus can still feel it twitching inside him, curling and brushing over nubs, and it— it feels _good_.

Feebly, he grinds down.

"PL—PLEASE," he gasps, and he doesn't know _what_ he's asking for. "D—DAD, PLEASE—"

Dad doesn't go back to thrusting.

Papyrus struggles to look down at him, to see that he's still here, and their eyes meet:

A soft, satisfied glow in Dad's eyes.

Hands grip him by the hips, hefts him up— he whines as the tentacle slides out of him, and liquid splashes down between his legs, staining the table.

Dad simply drops him, and Papyrus hits the floor with a strangled yelp.

"We're done for now," Dad says, and pushes himself off the table. "You're staying here tonight."

He picks up his pants, his lab coat, and Papyrus struggles to push himself up, to think beyond the pain and the pleasure, and the daze.

"W—W—WAIT, DAD—!"

The door slams shut behind him.

Papyrus pants.

He's on edge, bursting with magic, and his bone shake and clatter.

There's tears on his face, and a pool of liquid spreading beneath him, and he _can't_ —

He grinds down against the floor, sobs; he feels like he's about to tip over, like he's about to fall, and he can't—

He drops, worms his left hand down his body— he wriggles up to meet it, and when he pushes his fingers inside, he gasps.

It's not enough—

He grinds down, pushes his fingers up; he's so wet, so slick, and his hand just slips in.

He's not _enough_.

He cries into the ground, pushes his skull against it; he keeps on rubbing and grinding, and pushing his fingers deeper, but it's just—

Not enough.

He can't stop crying.

Shakily, he slips out his left hand; it drips, smearing blue and red and purple all over the floor, and weakly, he lays it on his right arm.

He shudders in air. His hips are twitching, jerking motions that makes his bone clatter, and _god—_

He digs his fingers into the bandage, claws at it; it hurts, it _hurts_ , and he tears off bandage and plaster, and then his right arm is free.

Oh god it hurts.

He pushes off with his legs, sobbing at the pain, and the buzzing in his skull, and slips both hands downwards.

He doesn't care that it hurts— he just wants it to _end_.

He slides in his fingers, slides in one hand; he grinds down against it, and it's still not enough, so he pushes his right in too, and _god_.

He gasps, weakly.

Drool slides down his chin.

He ruts against himself, grinding and rubbing and _god_ it won't end, it won't stop, and he's sobbing, shaking, and please, please—

It comes over him with a scream, and he arches, vision whiting out and body jerking— he's dripping, and his soul is shaking, and god, god, please—

He sobs.

Reality returns.

He jerks one hand out, then the other— he can't do anything but sob with pain, and it hurts, it hurts _so bad_.

He curls his arms around himself, smearing slick liquid into his shirt.

He feels like heaving.

He scrubs at his face, and there's a smell, sharp and unpleasant, and he cries harder, because it's Dad.

Purple's smeared all over his fingers, mixed with blue and red, and he dry-heaves, body locking up and ribs knocking together.

Oh god, he's _disgusting_ —

He heaves again, and he doesn't even bother trying to get up— just lets his body shake and jerk, breath caught in his vertebrae and ribs knotting together, and god he just wants to _die_.

 


End file.
